


Welcome Home

by WalkTheStarsWithMe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkTheStarsWithMe/pseuds/WalkTheStarsWithMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Some [scars] ran deep, permanent like canyons carved out by rivers, except the scars were carved by knives and chains rather than the constant running of water. Others were shallower, made by enemies who were kinder than most, if only by a mite and a half. None of those scars, however, could compare to the carnage Sherlock saw before him now.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

There were many scars that littered Sherlock's back, so many hidden beneath his coat and all the layers of clothing he wore all the time: red gashes like stripes falling over his skin like snow. Some of them ran deep, permanent like canyons carved out by rivers, except the scars were carved by knives and chains rather than the constant running of water. Others were shallower, made by enemies who were kinder than most, if only by a mite and a half. None of those scars, however, could compare to the carnage Sherlock saw before him now. Dead bodies were strewn across the floor of the empty warehouse, bloodstains crisscrossing each other in some sort of scarlet disharmony. Sherlock's mind went into overdrive instantly -- _librarianteachernursepolicemansecretaryjanitormusician_ \-- flagging all the links between the victims, even though those links were feeble, and all stretches.

Except for the fact that all of them had been mutilated, by hand, by knife, the same person and same knife every time.

Sherlock wandered until he stood in the centre of the carnage, where a thick line of fresh blood made a rough circle. Behind him were two separate splats of blood. In front of him lay a wide swath of dark red. A near-perfect replica of the yellow smiley in 221B Baker Street, just upscaled by about ten times.

He heard uneven footsteps. The body of a ginger girl was curled up to his left but he was sure it wasn't her. Sherlock listened harder: a faint clicking. Something part plastic, part metal, clicking on the stone floor. Sherlock met a stone floor once. It'd broken someone's heart. Broke his too. It was Sherlock's heart that froze, however, when the clicking stopped, an old friend's throat cleared, and all fell into place.

_No... It can't be._

But it was.

Sherlock turned, and there stood Dr John Watson. John's cane clattered against the pavement. Silence fell like a knife and sheathed itself inside the room, leaving all ears ringing and breaths hitched in throats. The dead people's stares crawled across Sherlock's back and he shivered. John's eyes bore into his and it made it all the worse.

"I couldn't bear the thought of you being dead." John said this clearly, despite the tremor in his voice and his hand and the shifty flightiness of his eyes. "For three years I thought every day would be my last."

Sherlock stood, shocked, scared for the first time in a long time and letting the words sink into his mind, his dizzy, terrified mind. "John?" he said.

John almost cut him off, speaking so quickly it was as if his voice were a careless driver reeling headfirst into disaster -- "So many times I stared at my gun, the knife, the rope, the roof. But then I realised how stupid it would be to take my own life. So stupid because I knew you were alive. Out there, somewhere." He spoke quieter now, but his voice burned with the intensity of a shout: "But you still never came."

Sherlock's ears rang, and a hoarse "No" escaped his mouth. Then another. And another.

But John did not stop talking. John took a step forward and slammed his foot down on the dead ginger girl's skull, the resulting crack making Sherlock wince. "So I decided to look for a way to lure you back here. What better way than this?"

The old soldier smirked, pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. The blade dripped with fresh blood.

"Welcome home, Sherlock," he cooed, softly, yet clearly.


End file.
